High Hunt (28 page)

“Soon as I see to my horse.” I grinned at them. I walked over toward Ned, and my feet felt like they weren't even touching the ground, I felt so good.

I got up at the usual time the next morning and had breakfast with the others. I felt a little left out now. The night before had been fine, with everyone going back to look at the deer and all. Even with the skin off and the carcass in a large mesh game bag to keep the bugs off, it looked pretty impressive. Clint and I had salted the hide and rolled it into a bundle with the head on top. I wasn't sure what I'd do with it, but this way
I'd be able to make the decision later. After the big spiel I'd given Clydine the day I'd left about not being a trophy hunter, I was about half-ashamed to keep the head and all, but I knew I'd have to have it in case of a game check. I thought maybe I could have the hide tanned and made into a vest or gloves or something—maybe a purse for her.

At breakfast I watched Cal carefully. He was coughing pretty badly, but he insisted on going down. I noticed that he didn't eat much breakfast.

We all walked on down to the corral, and I watched the others saddle up. Ned came over and nuzzled at me. I guess he couldn't quite figure out why we weren't going along. I patted him a few times and told him to go back to sleep—that's what I more or less had in mind.

“Go ahead and loaf, you lazy bastard,” Jack said.

Miller chuckled. “Don't begrudge him the rest—he's earned it.”

“Right,” I said, rubbing it in a little bit. “If you guys would get off the dime, you could lay around camp and loaf a little bit, too.”

“Of course, all the fun's over for you, Dan,” Sloane gasped.

I'd thought of that, too. We went back up to the tents so they could pick up their rifles.

I stood with my back to the campfire watching them ride off into the darkness. The sound of splashing came back as they crossed the little creek down below the beaver dam.

“More coffee, boy?” Clint asked me.

“Yeah, Clint. I think I could stand another cup.”

We hunkered down by the fire with our coffee cups.

“Now that you've shown them fellers how, I expect we'll be gettin' a few more deer in camp.”

“Yeah,” I agreed. “If they'll just get off that damn nonsense about that white deer.”

“Oh, I expect they will. I got about half a hunch that all you fellers shootin' at 'im the other day spooked 'im clear outa the territory.”

“I sure as hell hope so,” I said.

“Knew a feller killed one once,” he said. “He gave me some steaks off it. I dunno, but to me they just didn't taste right. The feller give up huntin' a couple years later. I always wondered if maybe that didn't have somethin' to do with it—'course he was gettin' along in years.”

I wasn't really sure how much Clint knew about what had happened that day, so I didn't say much.

“What you plannin' on doin' today?” he asked me.

“Oh, I thought I'd give you a hand around camp after a bit,” I said.

“You'd just be under foot,” he said bluntly.

“We can always use more firewood.” He grinned.

“Then I might ride old Ned around a little, too. I wouldn't want him to be getting so much rest that he's got the time to be inventing new tricks.”

“Oh, I wouldn't worry none about that. I think you and him got things about all straightened out.”

“But the first thing I'm gonna do is go back to bed for a while,” I said, grinning at him. “This getting up while it's still dark is plain unhealthy.”

“It's good for you.” He chuckled. “Kinda gets you back in tune with the sun.”

The more I thought about that, the more sense it made. Whatever the reason, when I went back to bed, I rolled and tossed in my sleeping bag for about an hour and a half and then gave it up as a bad job. I got up, had another cup of coffee, and watched the sunrise creep down the side of the mountain.

I finally wound up down by the beaver pond, watching the trout swim by.

“You wanna give 'em a try?” Clint hollered from camp.

“You got any gear?” I yelled back.

“Has a duck got feathers? Come up here, boy.”

Miller was sitting by the fire mending a torn place on the skirt of one of the saddles. “Old Clint never goes no place without his fishpole,” he said. “He'd pack it along on a trip into a desert—probably come back with fish, too.”

The little guy came back out of his tent putting together a jointed, fiber-glass rod. He tossed me a leather reel case. I opened it and took out a beautiful Garcia spinning reel.

“Man,” I said, “that's a fine piece of equipment.”

“Should be,” he growled, “after what I paid for it.”

Somehow I'd pictured him as the willow-stick, bent-pin-and-worm kind of fisherman.

“How you wanna fish 'em?” he asked me.

“What do you think'll work best? You know a helluva lot more about this kind of water than I do.”

He squinted at the sky. “Wait till about ten or so,” he said.
“Sun gets on the water good, you might try a real small spoon—Meppes or Colorado spinner.”

“What bait?”

“Single eggs. Or you might try corn.”

“Corn?”

“Whole kernel. I'll give you a can of it.”

“I've never used it before,” I admitted.

“Knocks 'em dead sometimes. Give it a try.”

We got the pole rigged up, and I carted it and the gear down to the pond. I'd never used corn before, and it took me a while to figure out how to get it threaded on the hook, but I finally got it down pat. After about ten minutes or so I hooked into a pretty nice one. He tailwalked across the pond and threw the hook. I figured that would spook the others, so I moved on down to the lower pond, down by the corrals.

The lower pond was smaller, deeper, and had more limbs and junk in it. It was trickier fishing.

On about the fourth or fifth cast, a lunker about sixteen inches or so flashed out from under a half-buried limb and grabbed the corn before it even got a chance to sink all the way to the bottom. I set the hook and felt the solid jolt clear to my shoulder. He came up out of the water like an explosion.

I held the rod-tip up and worked him away from the brush. It was tricky playing a fish in there, and it took me a good five minutes to work him over to the edge.

“Does nice work, don't he?” Clint said from right behind me. I damn near jumped across the pond. I hadn't known he was there. When I turned around, they were both there, grinning.

“He'll do,” Miller said.

I lifted out the fish and unhooked him.

“Want to try one?” I asked, offering the pole to Clint.

I saw his hands twitch a few times, but he firmly shook his head. “I get started on that,” he said, “and nobody'd get no dinner.”

“Shall I throw him back?” I asked, holding out the flopping fish.

“Hell,
no
!” Clint said. “Don't
never
do that! If you don't want 'em, don't pester 'em. Put 'im on a stringer and keep 'im in the water. Catch some more like 'im and we'll have fresh trout for lunch—make up for that liver you blew all to hell yesterday.”

“Yes,
sir
!” I laughed, throwing him a mock salute.

“Don't
never
pay to waste any kinda food around Clint here,” Miller said.

“I went hungry a time or two when I was a kid,” Clint said. “I didn't like it much, and I don't figger on doin' it again, if I can help it.”

The hollow roar of a rifle shot echoed bouncingly down the ridge.

“Meat in the pot,” Clint said.

There were three more shots, raggedly spaced.

“Not so sure,” Miller said, squinting up the ridge.

“We going up?” I asked, gathering up the fishing gear.

“Let's see what kind of signal we get,” Miller said.

We waited.

There finally came a flat crack of a pistol. After a minute or so there was a second.

“Cripple,” Clint said disgustedly.

“It happens,” Miller said. “I'll go. This might take some time and—”

“I know,” Clint said. “I gotta fix dinner.”

“I'll come along,” I said.

Miller nodded. “Might not be a bad idea. We might need some help if the deer run off very far.”

I took the gear back to camp and then went on down to the corral. “Any idea who it was?” I asked Miller, who was scanning the ridge with his glasses.

“Not yet,” he said. “Yesterday we could see you goin' on over the other ridge.”

“I got a hunch it was Stan,” I said. “That pistol of his has a short barrel.”

“Ain't the Big Man or your brother,” he said. “I can see both of them, and they ain't movin'.”

I waited.

“Yeah, it's the Professor, all right. He's just comin' up out of the gully.”

We saddled our horses as well as Stan's horse and the packhorse.

“We'll cut along the bottom here and go up on the other side,” he said.

“All right.”

We rode on up to the head of the basin and crossed the ravine just above the tree line. We could see Stan's fluorescent jacket in the brush about a mile up above. We started up.

We found him standing over the deer about a half mile from
the ravine. The deer was bleating and struggling weakly, several loops of intestine protruding from a ragged hole in his belly.

“Why didn't you finish him off?” I demanded, swinging down from the saddle.

“I—I couldn't,” he stammered, his face gray. “I tried but I couldn't pull the trigger.” He was standing there holding his pistol in a trembling hand.

I pulled out the .45, thumbed the hammer, and shot the deer in the side of the head. He stiffened briefly and then went limp.

I heard Stan gag and saw him hurry unsteadily away into the bushes. We heard him vomiting.

“His first deer?” Miller asked me very softly.

I nodded, putting the .45 away.

“Better go help 'im get settled down. I'll gut it out. Looks a little messed up.”

I nodded again. The deer was a three-point. I think we'd all passed up bigger ones.

“Come on, now, Stan,” I said, walking over to him. “It's all done now.”

“I didn't know they made any noise,” he said, gagging again. “I didn't think they
could
.”

“It doesn't happen very often,” I said. “It's all over now. Don't worry about it.”

“I made a mess of it, didn't I?” he asked, looking up at me, His face was slick and kind of yellow.

“It's all right,” I said.

“I just wanted to get it over with,” he said. “I tried to aim where you said, but my hands were shaking so badly.”

“It's OK,” I said. “Anybody can get buck-fever.”

“No,” he said, “it wasn't that at all. It was what happened the other day—when you saw me.”

I didn't say anything. I couldn't think of anything to say.

“I know you saw me,” he said. “I really wasn't trying to kill him, Dan. You have to believe that. I just had to make him quit talking the way he was—about Monica.”

“Sure, Stan. I know.”

“But I just had to get it over with. I've got to get away from him. Next time—” He left it.

I glanced over at Miller. He was almost done. He was even faster than Clint. I was sure he couldn't hear us.

“You all right now?” I asked Stan.

“You're pretty disgusted with me, aren't you, Dan?” he asked.

“No,” I said. “It's not really your fault. Things just got out of hand for you, that's all. You OK now?”

He nodded.

“Let's go give Miller a hand with the deer,” I said.

He stood up and wiped his face with his handkerchief.

“I'm awfully sorry, Mr. Miller,” he said when we got back. “I guess I just froze up.”

“It happens,” Miller said shortly, cleaning off his knife. “Bring that packhorse over here.”

I got the horse.

We loaded the deer onto the horse and lashed him down.

“Did you leave any of your gear over on the other side?” Miller asked him.

“No,” Stan said, “I brought everything along.”

“Well, let's go on down then.”

We climbed on the horses and rode on down to the bottom and across the ravine.

“What's the matter with Cal?” Stan said, pointing up the ridge.

I looked up, Sloane was standing up, weakly waving both hands above his head at us.

I looked at Miller quickly.

“Somebody better go see,” he said.

I nodded and turned Ned's nose up the hill.

Above me, Sloane fumbled at his helt briefly and then came out with his Ruger. He pointed it at the sky and fired slowly three times, then he sagged back down onto the ground.

I booted Ned into a fast lope, my stomach all tied up in knots.

“D
AN
,” Sloan gasped when I got up to him, “I'm sick. I've got to go down.” He looked awful.

“Your chest again?” I asked, sliding down out of the saddle. Ned was panting from the run uphill.

Sloan nodded weakly. “It's all I can do to breathe,” he said.

“Here,” I said, “you get on the horse.”

“I can't handle that horse,” he said.

“I'll lead him,” I said. I tied his rifle and canteen to the saddle and helped him up. Ned didn't care much for being led, but I didn't worry about that.

“How is he?” Miller asked when I got him down.

“Bad,” I said, “worse than ever.”

“Let's get 'im off the horse.”

We got him down and over to the fire.

“Do you want a drink, Cal?” I asked him.

He shook his head. “My goddamn heart's beatin' so fast now it feels like it's gonna jump out of my goddamn chest.”

Miller squatted down in front of him and looked him over carefully. “I hate to say this,” he told Cal, “but I'm afraid you're gonna have to go on back down. You're gettin' worse instead of better.”

Cal nodded.

“I'll refund part of what you paid.”

“No,” Cal said. “It's not your fault. You took us on in good faith. You don't owe me a dime.”

Miller shrugged. “I wish to hell it hadn't happened,” he said.

“I was doin' OK there for a while,” Cal said, “but it came back this morning worse than ever.”

“Well, let's get you laid down for now. That way you can get rested up for the ride.”

We got Sloane over to his tent and came back to the fire.

“Somebody's gonna have to go out with him,” Miller said. “He ain't gonna be able to drive the way he is.”

I felt a sudden pang—almost a panic. I didn't want to leave yet. Then I was ashamed of myself for it.

“I'll go,” Stan said very quietly. “I rode with him coming over, and besides, I'm all finished up now anyway.”

Miller nodded, not saying anything.

“I could just as easily go, Stan,” I said, not meaning it.

“There are other reasons, too,” he said.

I looked at him. He really wanted to go. “All right, Stan,” I said.

Miller looked at me. “You want to go fetch the others down for dinner, son?” he said. “I'll help Clint get things together for the trip down.”

“Sure,” I said. I went on down to get the horses.

Neither Jack nor McKlearey seemed particularly upset when I told them that Cal and Stan were leaving.

“I didn't figure Sloane would be able to hold out much longer,” Jack said. “I've been sayin' all along that he wouldn't get it under control.”

That wasn't how I remembered it.

McKlearey had merely grunted.

When we got back down though, the camp was pretty quiet. Stan had packed his and Sloane's gear and had it all laid out by the corral.

After we ate, we all pitched in and helped get things ready.

Clint skinned out Stan's deer and got it in a game bag. “I'll take yours down, too,” he told me. “I'll hang it in the icehouse at the place.”

“Have you got an icehouse?” I asked him. “I didn't think there were any of those left in the world.”

“Well, it ain't really an icehouse. We got a big refrigeration unit in it. We don't keep it set too cold. Works about the same way.”

McKlearey came over and looked Stan's deer over. “Ain't very big, is it?” he said.

“I don't see yours hangin' up there yet,” Clint said.

McKlearey grunted and walked off.

“I'm gettin' to where I don't much care for ol' Sarge,” Clint said.

“You're not the only one,” I told him.

“Still,” Clint said, squinting at the skinned carcass, “it really ain't much of a deer.”

“Better than nothing,” I said.

Clint, Stan, and Sloane left about two that afternoon. The rest of us stood around and watched them ride out. We'd tried to joke with Cal a little before he left, but he'd been too sick. His face was very pale, framed in the dark fur of his parka hood. The day seemed pretty warm to me, but I guess he felt cold. Just before they left, he gave Miller his tag.

“If you get a chance”—he gasped—“you might have somebody fill it for me.”

“Sure,” Miller said, “we'll get one for you.”

“I think I'll go on up a little early,” McKlearey said after they'd disappeared down the trail.

Jack looked at him narrowly. “Maybe I will, too,” he said.

“Not much point,” Miller said.

“We can find our way up there,” Jack said.

Miller looked at them. Finally he shrugged. “Just don't stay too late,” he said.

“We both got watches,” McKlearey said, nursing his bandaged hand.

Miller walked away.

I felt like there'd been a funeral in camp. Jack and Lou went on up the hill, and I sat around watching Miller get things squared away for dinner. I offered to help but he said no.

“You take care of that fish?” he asked me.

“Oh, hell.” I'd completely forgotten the fish.

“Why don't you see if you can get a few more?” he said.

“Sure.” I got Clint's pole and went on down to the pond. It was a little slow, but I managed to get three more before the sun went down. I cleaned them and took them back up to camp.

“Enough to go around.” Miller grinned at me. He seemed to be in a better humor now.

“I guess if I was fishing to eat, I wouldn't starve,” I said, “but I don't think I'd gain too much weight.”

“Not many would,” he said. “Clint, maybe, but I sure wouldn't. Maybe I just ain't got the patience.”

“Maybe you just can't think like a fish,” I told him.

He didn't answer. He was looking on off toward the mountains.

“Weather comin' in,” he said.

I looked up. A heavy cloudbank was building up along the tops of the peaks.

“Bad?” I asked him.

“Hard to tell. Rain, most likely.”

Lou and Jack came on down about dark, and we ate supper. There weren't enough trout to make a meal of, so we just ate them as a kind of side dish.

With Clint, Stan, and Sloane gone, the group around the fire seemed very small, and it was a whole lot quieter.

“I think I seen 'im today,” Lou said finally.

“Where?” Jack asked quickly.

“Up above me. I think I'll move on up to Danny's spot tomorrow.”

“You'll have to walk that last bit,” Miller said. “That horse of yours ain't that good.”

“I can do that, too,” Lou told him.

After that, nobody said much.

“Clint coming back tonight?” I asked Miller finally.

“More'n likely,” he said. “He'll probably try to beat the weather.”

“Think we'll get snow?” Jack asked him.

“Could. Rain more likely.”

“What'll that do to the deer?”

“Hold 'em back at first. They'll have to come out eventually though.”

I sat staring at the fire. I didn't much like the way Lou and Jack were beginning to push on Miller. The whole situation had changed now. With the others out of camp, things were getting pretty tight. Before, Cal and Stan had been around to kind of serve as a buffer between these two, and, of course, Clint's stories had helped, too. It was a lot grimmer now. I almost began to wish I'd gone down with the others. That would have left Miller right in the middle though, and that wouldn't have been any good. He didn't know what was going on.

“I suppose we might as well bed down,” Miller said finally. “I imagine we'll get woke up when Clint comes in.”

We all stood up and went off to our tents.

“I wish to hell you and McKlearey would get off this damn thing about that stupid deer,” I told Jack after we'd crawled in our sacks.

“You know what's goin' on,” he said shortly. “I ain't gonna back away from him like Larkin did.”

“Stan didn't back away,” I said. “Stan finally got smart.”

“How do you figure?”

“Day before yesterday he took a shot at Lou. Sprayed dirt all over him.”

“No shit?” Jack sounded surprised.

“Scared the piss out of him.”

Jack laughed. “I wish I coulda seen it.”

“It's not really that funny,” I said. “That's why Stan left camp. He wasn't sure he could make himself miss next time.”

“I sure wouldn'ta missed. So Lou was playin' around with Stan's wife, too, huh? I didn't think he was her type.”

“He isn't. She got stupid, is all.”

“Well, don't get shook. I ain't gonna shoot 'im. I'm just gonna outhunt 'im. I'm gonna get that deer.”

I grunted and rolled over to go to sleep.

McKlearey had another nightmare that night, screaming for Sullivan and for some guy named Danny—I knew that it wasn't me. It took us quite a while to get him calmed down this time.

Then about two thirty or so Clint came in, and we all got up again to help him get the horses unsaddled. It had started to drizzle by then, so we had to move all the saddles into the now-empty tent where Stan and Cal had slept.

All in all it was a pretty hectic night.